


I Miss You

by eternity_in_my_pocket



Category: Angels & Airwaves, Blink-182
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 04:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternity_in_my_pocket/pseuds/eternity_in_my_pocket
Summary: After the announcement of To The Stars Academy, Tom gets surprise visitor.





	I Miss You

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was going through my fic folder and found this fic from 2017. I had started writing it the day that Tom had announced To The Stars Academy, wrote this whole thing, and forgot about it for two years also forgetting where I wanted to go next with it. I can't remember the ending I had planned but, honestly, I feel like what I'd wrote fit. Anyways. Reach for the stars, my friends xo - C

Tom turned on the lights to his hotel room and closed the door, locking both of the bolts behind him. He couldn’t remember when he’d had a longer day; it was good - _really good_ \- but fuck if he wasn’t tired as shit.

He dropped his satchel down by the bed and rubbed his face roughly with his hands. He didn’t know whether to sigh or yawn; settling for a groan he rubbed his face one more time before dropping his hands to take off his suit jacket and sloppily undo his tie.

He wanted to go to bed, but his mind was racing. His secret, his project that he’d been working on for over two years – really, that he’d been working on and leading up to for _twenty years_ was now coming to fruition and had been unveiled to the world. Tom DeLonge – singer, writer, avid extra terrestrial and paranormal researcher – had released his plans for creating an open source space program, getting information about UFO’s out to the public and to work together to try and create one. 

When he was younger and dreamed of this, they’d laughed. “They” being nearly everyone he came in contact with. He’d believed in extra terrestrial life forms from a young age. He’d read every book he could get his hands on, even if they weren’t considered to be credible. Coming of age in the early 90’s the only thing vaguely similar to a computer he owned was an NES and he didn’t get his first desktop until his band’s first record sold. After that, the rest was history. Sure, he had the band. It took up most of his time and energy, but every spare second he had when he wasn’t working on music he was trying to find out how to get to the stars.

The thing about information on UFO sightings was that they were scarce; they were made to seem like hokey stories told by uneducated desert dwelling residents. But that was the other thing – they were made to seem that way on purpose: if it looked like a drunk story, who would actually believe it?

Somehow, by talking and making connections (and maybe a little bribery) he got a hit. He started being able to drag in information that was slipping through the cracks wanting to be seen by the light of day. He knew that this information had to be shared with the public; shouldn’t everyone know if we’d been visited by other life forms, to know that we aren’t alone, to know that if intergalactic travel is possible we will need to work together to do it?

These two years, this is what Tom had been working on and he couldn’t talk about it with anyone – hardly even his own wife. To be honest, he was scared and he had been for a while. This information had been kept secret a long time for a reason and here he was pulling on the hairs of the FBI with tweezers. His hands were shaking. There was a large possibility that he would still be laughed at – that he would be considered just as crazy as a desert dweller – but he had to trust the people that had faith.

Faith goes a long way. Faith in the truth is what got him here.

But, yes, he was still scared. There was a reason he had to keep secret: the _actual_ information, the true Classified files on UFO sightings had been kept secret because the Big Guys didn’t trust the people with the information. He’d originally thought that it was because They thought the people would freak out. But now he knew better – it was really a plot to keep the public grounded. There was a reason NASA was slowly being defunded and privatized. There was a reason there hadn’t been a human on the moon since 1972, and there was a reason that the world’s astronauts were limited to the International Space Station: the Big Guys were afraid we would reach for the border – that the want to reach the end of the galaxy would become too great, and they _knew_ what was out there.

And Tom and his new cohorts were blowing the lid on the whole thing.

It wasn’t obvious, of course. It was veiled under the pretense of using the old Classified files to make a spaceship to beat any of the current NASA rockets, one that could go _warp speed_ no less, but when one thing leads to another…

He shook his hands out and laughed.

Well. If he died, he’d die trying to create an actual version of the fucking Federation from _Star Trek_.

This was bigger than himself. So much fucking bigger than himself. He was glad to finally have the project out in the open. He hated having to ask for money – he’d already been sent an article from Jen titled “Tom DeLonge Needs Your Help Funding His UFO Obsession” – but he knew, he fucking _knew_ there were people out there that could help. As much as he knew it would be a while for people to take him seriously, at least he knew this wasn’t a joke.

He just hoped he wouldn’t get himself shot by an undercover agent in his sleep.

There was a knock on the door and it startled him out of his thoughts, immediately making him break out in a cold sweat. He quietly got up off the bed and pulled out his phone, quickly turning on the sound recorder and placed it screen down on the desk; if this was it, at least it would be recorded.

He padded his way to the door and waited a moment. There was another set of knocks; it wasn’t urgent. Casual. Not a room service knock, for sure. He waited _another_ moment and then moved to stare out the peephole. His cold sweat froze and his heart pounded, not the feds but…

“Mark?” He swung the door open and pulled the guy in. Mark was dressed in black jeans and a dark hoodie, sunglasses and hat – Tom was honestly surprised that the front desk had let him come this far; Tom had given a strict request that he wasn’t expecting visitors. He supposed, in the end, everyone had their bribe amount.

“What the fuck are you doing here, man?” Tom’s whisper was harsh and he shoved the other man in the shoulder then pulled him into a hug, “How did you even know how to find me?”

Mark gently pulled away from the embrace and winced, taking off his sunglasses and hat, “Don’t be mad at Jen?”

“Fuck, I’m not mad. But you were the last person I was expecting to see tonight.” He let out a nervous laugh and held out an arm to the open room signaling the other he was free to do what he wanted.  
“Were you expecting other people?” Mark raised an eyebrow and unzipped his hoodie.

Tom rolled his eyes and leaned against the desk, picking up his phone to turn off the recorder, “Let’s just say, I was expecting Men in Black.”

“I would say I’m kind of a disappointment then.”

“Far from it.” He put his phone back on the desk. He couldn’t help but smile, but he had to know, “I thought you still fucking hated me after I left. Again.”

“Y’know,” the other man sighed, “We’ve been through a fuckin’ lot. You should know by now I don’t _genuinely_ hate you.” He paused and added, “I just hate the things you do sometimes.” He patted the bed beside him where he’d gone to sit down, and when Tom did he continued, “But I may still be fuckin’ mad at you. Impressed, put also seriously pissed.”

Tom nodded. Leaving the band. He’d done it twice now: once to recover from drug abuse, ending up in a different band in the process, and then again for this. At least he’d had an explanation the first time.

“Do you know why I couldn’t give you a reason now?” A little bit of Tom’s initial happiness had faded; the moment he pulled Mark in the room he knew they’d be having this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head for two years, he just wasn’t sure how it would actually go. Surely Mark understood. He was here, wasn’t he?

Mark nodded. They weren’t as young as they used to be. When they’d released _Buddha_ in 1994 Mark had been 22 and Tom had been 19. Since then they’d been through hell together. They’d been through a lot of _years_ together, sometimes fighting, but somehow always coming back together like magnets. Even if the reunion itself took years.

Mark looked at Tom, he was tired. They were both fucking tired. Mark could feel it in his bones; once he’d gotten Jen on the phone, he’d spent the whole day traveling. Hopping planes. Making phone calls. Hailing cabs. Trying to get his thoughts in order. Now that he was here, he was exhausted. But this conversation had to happen.

He’d known Tom for over 25 years. The fucker had some crazy interests, but aliens were at the top. At points, when they were trying to focus as a band, Tom’s research became borderline obsessive – they wouldn’t see him for days on end because he’d be holed up somewhere with his laptop and an external hard-drive saving anything he could get his sticky fingers on. He would miss practice. Forget the time. Forget the _day_ even.

It set them back a lot. Not just the band, but their friendship.

Mark tried to be understanding. He really did. But it was hard when you didn’t have something yourself that you’re passionate about. Something besides the music.

Mark didn’t come here to whine; he was done complaining about Tom leaving them high and dry. Even if he didn’t complain to the media, Matt and Travis heard the brunt of it. But, it was agreed, Tom left peacefully.

Mark chose his words carefully, and started to speak slowly. “I understand why you left. But you have to realize, this passion of yours – this project – not everyone has that.” He turned to Tom and eyed him, even though the other wasn’t looking at him, “The only passion I have is for music. For the band. Even if the music turns to shit, it’s all I have in the end. My bass and my friends.”

He continued, “That’s why it kills me every time you split.”

Tom met his gaze, “But you understand?”

“ _Yes_ you fucker,” he punched Tom in the leg, “Can’t you hear I’m trying to say I miss you?”

Tom cracked a grin. Tiredness was washing over him again, but his mind was still racing, “Where do we go from here?”

“If it’s alright with you,” Mark kicked off his shoes, “I would like to start by demanding to crash here with you, and you can tell me all about this shit you’ve been up to.” He flopped back on the bed, “Then we can pick back up where we left off.”

Tom took his tie completely off and got up to lock the door again, “Sounds good to me.”


End file.
